


Give Me My Sin Again

by madnorthbynorthwest



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3396899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnorthbynorthwest/pseuds/madnorthbynorthwest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't believe me? Why don't you call my bluff, Mr. Silva?"</p>
<p>AU of The Scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me My Sin Again

“Hello, James. Welcome.” The voice is light, touched with a Castilian lilt, and joyous. Bond’s eyes sweep across the room as the lift doors open to reveal a tailored cream suit and hair too blond to be natural. “Do you like the island?”

He keeps his face impassive as his target—Spanish, clean-shaven, and accomplished cyber-terrorist—crosses the room. Severine had called him ‘Silva’ before they’d dressed in the morning, all the name she would give. Bond studies his stride, the collected but easy pace as he speaks of rats and the change of nature.

Silva chitters away, mimicking the pests, until he stands before his bound captive with a sad smile. “The two survivors: this is what she made us.”

Always about M with him, is it? Bond speaks with cool precision. “I made my own choices.”

And Silva laughs, half bitter half delighted, but shakes his head. “You think you did. That’s her genius.”

He takes in the terrorist, mind scanning the situation until he cocks his head with casual ease. “Station H, am I right? Hong Kong.”

“Mm-hmm.” Silva takes a seat across from Bond with the grace of a predatory cat, lean and coiled to pounce. When he relaxes, his eyes drop to appraise him. “’86 to ’97. Back then I was her favorite. And you’re not nearly the agent I was, I can tell you that.”

Bond arches his brows, waiting for him to go on.

Silva waves a hand in his direction, and he manages to sound regretful in spite of the laugh. “Just look at you, barely held together by your pills and your drink.”

“Don’t forget my pathetic love of country.”

They share a smile and Silva sighs. “You’re still clinging to your faith in that old woman when all she does is lie to you.”

There is bitterness there, more than Silva would like him to see. And Bond can’t keep a hint of defensiveness from his voice. They’ve a shared tension, no matter the difference in expression. “She never lied to me.”

“No?” Now he is all too eager to share M’s treachery. He stands, legs tense with the effort of concealed rage. “What did you score in your marksmanship evaluation?”

“70.”

Silva hisses with sad smile. “40. Did she tell you the psychologist cleared you for duty?”

“Yes.” He keeps the answers clipped, detaching himself from the conversation. It always comes to this.

“No.” Silva shakes his head with a sigh that seems almost sincere, and he turns to read from the computer screen. “’Medical examination: fail. Physical evaluation: failed. Psychological evaluation: alcohol and substance addiction indicated. Pathological rejection of authority based on unresolved childhood trauma. Subject is not approved for field duty and immediate suspension from service advised.’”

In the back of his mind, M’s voice echoes with harsh reality. _Take the bloody shot_.

“What is this if not betrayal?” Now he pulls the chair as close as possible, sitting so his knees touch Bond’s with an intimacy he hasn’t expected. Silva hums, ever casual, and nods to himself. “She sent you after me knowing you’re not ready, knowing you’ll likely die. Mommy was very bad!”

_Take the bloody shot_. Bond forces the voice out of his mind.

Silva’s fingers undo the top two buttons of his shirt, pulling the fabric across his chest and revealing the red and wicked scar above his breast. His eyes fill with sympathy. “Ooh. See what she’s done to you.”

“Well, she never tied me to a chair.” His voice drops half an octave with Silva touches the tips of his fingers to the scar. Still so tender.

The blond’s fingers drift along his collarbone with a ghostly taunt. “Her loss.”

Bond’s breath hitches when Silva’s fingers trace a downward pattern, but he keeps his face calm. The longer he touches him, the harder it is to pretend it doesn’t affect him. It’s too soft for torture, and there’s a hint beneath the surface of his fingers that teases at something more. “Are you sure this is about M?”

“It’s about her.” But Silva’s voice is distant, his eyes glazed as he follows the curves of Bond’s collar. “And you, and me.”

His own eyes drift shut for half a moment. A clever tactic. He’d not expected seduction from him. Against his will, he shivers under the touch.

“You see we are the last two rats. We can either eat each other…” Silva’s eyes flicker from Bond’s chest to his face, and his smile is delighted at the thought. He pauses, inviting Bond to comment on the joke. “Hmm? Or eat everyone else.”

_Take the bloody shot_.

Silva’s fingers ghost along his neck, stroking veins and muscle. Bond tilts his head back, listening with an impassive face. But his heartbeat escalates, calling his expression’s bluff. He can hear Silva’s smirk. “How you’re trying to remember your training now. What’s the regulation to cover this?”

His voice is a caress and Bond arches into it. M’s words fade to a dull roar in the background as those infuriating fingers circle his throat, barely touching the skin. It’s damn near maddening. Bond’s face flickers, and for half a moment there is nothing but the heat and the fog and Silva’s too-gentle hands. _Touch me_.

The hands pull away, and if Silva smiles Bond does not see it, eyes closed and head thrown back in a mad search for his touch. The terrorist settles on his inner thighs, earning a low hiss. Silva trails his hands down his legs, stopping at the knee with slow, lingering, caress. He leaves a trail of heat in his wake, and Bond twitches beneath those infuriating fingers. “Well, first time for everything. Yes?”

_Oh god, that’s good_. Bond takes a shaky breath, smiling at the rough sound of his own voice. “What makes you think this is my first time?”

“Oh, Mr. Bond!” Silva pulls away, breathless, eyes dancing with scandal.

“You don’t believe me?” His breath is heavy as he leans forward, straining against the cuffs holding him to the chair. “Why don’t you call my bluff, Mr. Silva?”

A finger trails down the inseam of his trousers, and he thrusts into the touch, squirming for freedom. Silva’s laugh shakes with enough heat to destroy them both. “Mmm. What shall we do about that, eh, James?”

Silva’s mouth is hot as it presses to the side of his neck, ghosting the shell of his ear. Bond moans into it. There’s little point in feigning indifference. The other man is just as undone as he is. “I think you should untie me, Silva.”

“I think you should call me Raoul, darling.” He kisses a path down Bond’s neck, nipping at his throat and working his way to his collar. As he speaks, his tongue flickers to taste the heat of Bond’s skin. “I trust you won’t take advantage of me and try to escape, hmm? I would be so disappointed.”

Bond fights against the chair, arching into Silva’s touch, aching to be closer. “You think I’m so dull?”

“Never.” Even as he finds the tender scar tissue on his chest, sweeping his tongue along the rough flesh, his arm reaches behind Bond to undo the cuffs. “Shall we take this conversation elsewhere, James?”

He tangles a numb hand in Silva’s hair, pulling him into a fierce kiss, all teeth and spite. Taking hold of Silva’s jacket, he grinds himself to the other man, giving him the leverage to force their bodies closer. “You realize,” he murmurs, kissing his way into Silva’s mouth, “that I still intend to take you in.”

“Of course you do.” Silva guides him across the room, letting Bond take lead of the kiss. They stumble blindly into the lift, hands roaming one another so much like schoolboys. He nips at Bond’s lower lip and smiles when it earns him a hiss. “But that’s no reason to stop now, is it?”

“I find I like the way you think.” Bond nudges his knee between Silva’s legs, rocking up against his erection. Now he smiles into the man’s mouth, tugging at his hair and tasting the metallic tang of false teeth. Interesting. He forgets the observation as quickly as he notices it, lost in the touch. “But I need you to shut up.”

Silva’s laugh is rough and obliging. He takes hold of Bond’s hips, bringing them sharply against his own and sending sparks of unbearable friction between them. “Let’s see who ends up on top, shall we?”

Bond sees white, and he breaks away from the kiss to heave for breath. Silva’s mouth finds its way to his throat again, pressing wet and feverish kisses into his skin.

The lift doors swing open, and Bond stumbles as the terrorist steps away, pulling him into an extensive penthouse suite. In the back of his mind, Bond scans the suite for means of escape, but Silva grinds against him just so and he shuts his eyes with a low groan. “You take your time.”

“Good things come to those who wait, dear James.” He steps forward, suddenly shoving Bond backwards, eyes glittering when he lands on the bed. Silva crawls atop him with a wicked smile. “Better things come to good boys. So the question remains…” he punctuates each word with a languid kiss down Bond’s chest, until his breath tickles the seam of his trousers, “…are you a good boy?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but Silva’s mouth is on his inseam, toying with him through the fabric of his suit. His mind fractures. “Oh, god.”

“I’m flattered, darling, but no. Just me.” He sits up for a moment, taking in the prone and heaving agent, and kisses the side of his mouth. In the distance, Bond hears the static shift of a zipper coming undone and he thrusts his hips up to meet Silva’s too-skilled hands. Tangling his fingers into Silva’s hair, he urges him back down, damn near whining when Silva’s mouth takes him.

His hands take hold of what mouth cannot reach, leaving Bond to push up against him.

“That’s it.” The terrorist murmurs.

“Do you always—ah!—need to have the last word?” Bond gasps each word, tugging at his hair with every movement. The other man hums and his voice vibrates through the tongue he has wrapped around him.

Silva pulls back, stroking Bond with an indulgent sigh. With his free hand, he caresses his pelvis, laughing softly at the sounds the agent makes. “James, darling, do you want to talk or do you want to fuck?”

Grinning, Bond sits up and pulls the man to him. He takes Silva’s lower lip between his teeth with a breathless moan. Pressing languid kisses along the curve of the terrorist’s jaw, he lets them fall back against the sheets, rutting into Silva’s hand. He smiles against his neck with a breathy whisper. “Thought so.”

And Silva moans, a delicious throaty sound that makes Bond rock faster into his touch. “ _Oh_ , Mr. Bond, what you do to me.”

His hands fumble with Silva’s trousers, pulling them down in a frantic dance of undress. Silva pulls him up again and they wrestle with one another’s suits, tearing at their flesh with kisses that are more teeth than lips. When they toss away the last of their clothing, they pause in unison, staring at each other, hands tracing old scars and new wounds. Silva’s torso is riddled with silver marks. It’s enough to pierce the cloud of lust, and Bond touches them as he heaves.

Station H. Hong Kong. Chinese torture, then?

“Mmm.” Silva curls his fingers around Bond’s neck, tilting his chin to meet his eyes. “Do you like what you see, James?”

He smiles when the terrorist doesn’t give him the chance to answer, and moans into the kiss.

They lean back down, Silva’s hand going back to its agonizing ministrations and taking hold of both of their cocks. _Yes, yes, that’s it_. He reaches down to help, rolling to straddle him without breaking the kiss. “I like it best this way.”

“Yes, I suppose you would.” Silva lets him take control, but only for a moment, and then switches their positions. He reaches past them and Bond hears a rustling to the side as the terrorist shuffles the surface of the nightstand. A moment, and he finds what he’s looking for, and pulls back, hand trailing down Bond’s chest. He tsks when Bond tries to flip them again, lightly pinching at the base of Bond’s cock and earning a gasp of measured pain and pleasure. “ _Qué cabezota_ , so stubborn, darling.”

Bond’s eyes flash, but he lies back with a grunt. “Would you have me any other way?”

A laugh, and Silva slides along the contours of his chest, pressing a kiss just above his pelvis. Moaning, the agent spreads his legs for his blond captor, rolling his head back into the mattress with an anxious thrust. “So eager for me?”

“Oh get on with it, Mr. Silva.” Bond furrows his brow, startled, when Silva rolls the condom onto him, but he recovers with a quick heave of breath.

His captor hums as he coats Bond with lubricant, and the agent grins, rocking up into the terrorist’s hand. He takes his time, caressing and tugging with every touch. At last, he takes his hands off of him and leans back to prepare himself.

But Bond sits up to take the bottle away. “You weren’t planning on having all the fun yourself, were you?”

Silva rocks into him, eagerly reaching for Bond’s hands. “You continue to surprise me, dear.”

“Stop talking.” He catches Silva’s mouth in his, trailing his fingers down the blond’s spine and dipping a finger into his rectum. Smiling as the other man gasps into the kiss, Bond stretches him in languid, lazy scissors as he adds another finger.

When he pulls his fingers out—it seems it’s been years—he leaves a generous coat of lubricant behind and lets Silva push him back. The other man presses a deep kiss to Bond’s mouth and slowly sinks down atop the agent, throwing his head back with a groan.

Bond’s mind goes blank, but his hands are immediately on Silva’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts. He sits up, one arm securing the terrorist against his chest and leaving the other hand to its duties on his groin. They rock into one another, panting and kissing with desperate strokes of hand and tongue. Silva’s fingers tangle in his hair, scratch down his back, and tweak at his chest, his mouth swallowing the agent’s every moan.

It’s slow, so much slower than it was with Severine, but the pace is tantalizing, and every gesture heightens the heat and tension. Silva moves with deliberate measure, heaving as he scatters kisses along Bond’s neck and shoulder. Everything is heat and tight pulses, and their fingernails rake at one another. Above him, in the afternoon light peering through the windows, Silva almost glows, the sun catching his hair in a halo. “Oh, god, James.”

“I’ll kill you if you stop.” He mutters against Silva’s chest, mouthing at the scars marring his flesh. It’s beautiful, in a grotesque map that shouldn’t turn him on, but it does, and he snaps his hips up, earning a startled whimper from his partner.

Silva rests his head in the crook of Bond’s neck, nuzzling and nipping at the spot where neck meets shoulder. His teeth tug at the agent’s flesh, and he tilts his head to the side to give him better access. They’ll both feel this in the aftermath, but for the moment it’s just touch and heat and godless lust.

The pressure builds with every biting kiss, until Bond’s chest constricts in a strangled gasp. The edges of his vision go black for half a moment, and then everything is hot and blinding white as he comes. Silva rides him through the orgasm, murmuring praises in Spanish and kissing him as though he could devour Bond’s very soul.

He quickens his pace on Silva’s cock until it jerks in his hand, and Silva follows him to climax, breath mingling with Bond’s in the heat of their kiss. They come down from the high together, panting and stroking their bodies in the afterglow, slow and gentle now that they’ve satisfied their lust. As his pulse falls to a normal rate, Bond watches the terrorist with hazy eyes.

Silva moans and pushes himself off of Bond’s length, only to sit back in his lap, head rolling to the agent’s shoulder. He presses a kiss against his skin, humming a note of satisfaction that leaves Bond grinning. “So the rumors are true.”

“I should hope so.” Bond noses his way down Silva’s face, seeking his lips in a slow, demanding kiss. His hands roam the contours of his body, memorizing the muscle tone and each spot that elicits a gasp. Losing himself in the touch, he pulls Silva down on top of him, and they deepen the kiss. Fingers weave through hair, hands follow their silhouettes, and legs tangle in lazy ease.

His head spins with each touch, and the world drops away. It’s rough, needy, and impossibly perfect. Bond shudders in a heavy breath, and finally lets his head roll back onto a pillow, fingers trailing down the length of Silva’s arms. “That was unexpected.”

“Hmm.” The blond studies him, propping his chin on a hand, and traces patterns on Bond’s chest. “But pleasant, no?”

His lips part in a giddy laugh. “Very.”

They lie there for some time, neither inclined to move. Bond glances at Silva with half-open eyes, fighting the urge to simply pull him to his chest and fall asleep.

Silva returns his smile. “You are thinking you should arrest me now.”

“I am.” He watches Silva’s face, sees no sign of apprehension, and idly wonders if this has been the terrorist’s goal all along. “But I hate to put a damper on our relationship.”

“Alas, you are still loyal to Mother.” The blond seems genuinely regretful, and he trails a lazy finger along the strong curve of Bond’s jaw. “I do not suppose you will listen to reason.”

Shaking his head, he can’t help but grin. “Reason’s never been my strength.”

“A pity.” Silva sits up with a sigh that turns into a bitter laugh. “All that physical stuff, so dull. Chasing spies…it’s exhausting, darling. Your knees must be killing you.”

He watches in silence. Silva reaches down, caressing his knees, the pads of his fingers paying worship to his flesh and bone.

The man’s voice carries a note of remorse and he looks away to stare, blankly, at the wall. “If only you knew you were living in a ruin.”

“What did she do to you?”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, an instinctive touch to the cheek, and Silva shakes his head. “A story for another time.” It’s not an answer, but even a fool would see the darkness in the blond’s eyes. There’s a measure of truth in his hate. He has a history with her, and she isn’t an innocent.

Her voice echoes through his memory, and he shivers. _Take the bloody shot_.

His training says to make the arrest now, and be done with it, but Bond leans forward, dropping a tender kiss to Silva’s shoulder, hands pulling the terrorist against his chest in a moment of calm embrace. Respite for the last two rats…

“Now we must get dressed. I have something to show you.” Silva turns toward him and his mask is back in place, cool, light, and delighted at the prospect of toying with his pretty little agent.

Bond rolls his eyes and hopes that the helicopters arrive soon.

**Author's Note:**

> This is either the greatest or worst thing I have ever written and damned if I don't know which it is.


End file.
